


Pumpkin Mocha Breve

by arituzz



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arituzz/pseuds/arituzz
Summary: I watch him sipping at the cup and wait for the compliments. Which never come. He grimaces and all I want to do is spit on him.  But I don’t. I’ve heard it’s not nice to spit on your customers on your first day at work.(In which Baz works in a coffee shop and Simon is his first customer)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Carry On Countdown, on tumblr. Prompt: Coffee Shop AU

**BAZ**

It’s unnecessarily grandiose to create your own beverage on your first day as a barista—especially when you’re not really a barista and you’re just being forced to work part-time at the shabby coffee shop around the corner—but I do it anyway. Because I can. And I might as well make a good start.

I hand a cup to my first customer. “What is this?“ he asks, estranged. I look at his face. He’s got the most unremarkable blue eyes. And bronze curls.

“Pumpkin mocha breve,” I say, with a smirk. “I created it myself.”

I watch him sipping at the cup and wait for the compliments. Which never come. He grimaces and all I want to do is spit on him.  But I don’t. I’ve heard it’s not nice to spit on your customers on your first day at work.

“I hate it,” he says. And I mentally shoot at each of the three moles he has on his right cheek with my eyes. “It’s like drinking a candy bar,” he goes on.

“How the bloody hell is that a bad thing?”

“It’s too sweet,” he complains.

“It’s not,” I say.

“Anyway, where are the cherry scones I ordered?”

“I’m not touching those disgusting things. Ask the other guy.”

“I’m asking yo,” he says.

“And I said no.”

“Do your job.”

“Fuck you.”

“Basilton.” Oh, great. It’s the boss. “What is happening here?”

“This dimwit says he doesn’t like my creation,” I explain.

“Basilton. You can’t insult our customers. Go clean the toilets, Gareth will take the orders.”

I harrumph but decide to obey him. Anything is better than to put up with this imbecile.

“Simon, you too,” the boss continues.

“But dad–” _Dad?_ This idiot has been mocking me all along, I guess. He looks like he is going to protest, but thinks it better. “Okay. Fine,” he says, reluctantly.

“This is all your fault,” I accuse him once we are in the toilets. “You should be the only one cleaning, while I watch.”

“Maybe if you were nicer you wouldn’t have to clean the toilets.”

“You started.”

“I just wanted my cherry scones,” he says. “Now thanks to you, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh my.” I make an exaggerated gesture with my hand. “What makes you think I care?”

“Rude,” he pouts.

“Idiot,” I say, and the anger reaches my stomach. Burning. A kind of anger I’ve never felt before. It’s like my whole intestines were on fire. And my lips almost curl up into a smile.

—

Simon Snow—that’s the name of the irritating boss’ son—only works on weekends. But he comes every afternoon to make my life miserable.

He used to come with his girlfriend, Wellbelove. Or rather, ex-girlfriend. The day she left him was grand.

Today he’s come alone.

“Hi Baz,” he says as he comes in. “Two cherry scones and a pumpkin mocha breve.” He orders the same every day.

“Thought you hated my creation?”

“Oh, I do. I only order it so you can see my grimacing face as I drink it.”

“I hate you,” I say. And there’s enough fire inside me to make Hell seem like a chilly place to spend your holidays in.

“I hate you more,” he replies.

—

Two weeks. It takes me two weeks to realise that feeling in my gut is less like anger and more like _falling_. Snow approaches the counter and takes his usual order and smiles his idiotic smile and I’m there breathless and that’s when I fall. Head over heels. For him. Fuck.

Not without much effort, I hand him his order. And my heart. He reaches for the cup and brushes my fingers. My intestines burn. Apparently, so do my fingers because he draws away at the contact, spilling the drink all over the counter.

I don’t say anything. (I’m still breathless.)

He doesn’t say anything.

The boss says something.

“It was him,” Snow finally says.

“You two, again?”

“It was not my fault,” I manage to say.

“Are you saying _I_ spilled it?” Snow asks.

“Obviously.”

“You two, again.” The boss is losing his patience. I don’t blame him. “Toilets. Now.”

“I swear to God, this café has the cleanest toilets I’ve ever seen,” I mutter under my breath but obey him anyway.

And then it goes like this:

An electric wave runs from my fingers through all my body as Snow hands me the cleaning sponge and our hands touch again. I look at him, but his eyes are fixed on the sponge. His lips are parted. My heart is trying to escape my ribcage.

Snow lets go of the sponge and I let it fall, we both watch it as it hits the floor. Then I feel the warm grip of Snow’s hand on my wrist. And everything stops: my heart, my breathing. The whole world.

Snow takes a breath and I see the same burning of my stomach reflected in his eyes.

And then it’s my back against the wall. My wrists held in place above my head. Snow leaning in. Everything’s on fire.

It’s my mouth finally in its rightful place—against Simon’s.

“I thought you hated me,” I dare say, after a while.

“Maybe I lied.” Simon eases his grip on my wrists and entwines his fingers with mine. He kisses me again, this time softly. “I don’t hate the pumpkin mocha breve, either.”

I laugh and take him into my arms. “I noticed,” I say, against his hair. “You’re a very bad liar.”

-FIN-


End file.
